John had gone home a week after the incident and retrieved the rest of his belongings. Sherlock had come to help. He met John's parents, while his older sister, Harriet, was upstairs sleeping with a hangover. He grew just a tad bit sad realizing that John could've come out just like his father and sister.

John's mother was kind, but she flinched too much. Sherlock didn't have to ask why. He could see the nervous glances she threw to her wretched husband, as if seeking permission for everything she did or tried to do.

The time was ten forty-four a.m., and John's father was already tipsy. He had a bottle in his hand and an idiotic expression on his face. It was as if he had no idea where he even was, didn't know the difference between a dream and reality.

The house was wrecked and stank of foul old man. No matter how hard John's mother worked, she couldn't scrub away what happened there every damn day. There was a sad aura around that caused Sherlock's shoulders to droop and his expression to soften. He followed John down the hall to his bedroom.

The difference was extreme.

John's room had a lovely vanilla scent, and it was as neat and orderly as a doctors' office. There were a few sports posters hanging up, one for some band, but there were mostly pictures of landscapes. He had a bookshelf that was hardly filled with books. Instead it was a miscellaneous stack of things one doesn't need but also doesn't throw away. His bedding was practical; white and fluffy. It looked like heaven to curl up under. There was quiet ticking coming from the clock above the closet.

It was no wonder he was so orderly and precise. He never wanted to become his father. All of John's features belonged to his father, all accept those coffee brown eyes of his. His mother graciously gifted him with her lovely eyes. Sherlock loved those eyes with a strange passion. They told a story all on their own, but no one was allowed to read it.

The boys worked for hours. As the sky grew darker, and a light drizzle sneaked it's way out of the clouds, John grew agitated. Sometimes John just stood there, staring at everything they had to do, hyperventilating, and Sherlock had to snap him out of it with a comforting pat on the head. "We'll get it all done tonight, I promise." Sherlock reassured him.

John simply gave a grim nod and continued working.

When they were finally finished, John and his mother stood on the pavement and said their goodbyes. Her eyes got misty as she whispered how proud of him she was, that he was going to college and making something great out of himself, that he was finally going to live a healthy life. Mr. Watson didn't hear any of this, he was inside screaming at the football game.

"This is what you always needed, right mum? One kid out, one to go? This is your big break. Maybe Harry can move in with her girlfriend or something."

Mrs. Watson let out a sob. John gave her one last kiss on the forehead, and then hopped into the passenger seat of the rental mover. Sherlock silently sped off towards Baker Street, carrying John far away from the life that hindered him all these years.

Sherlock promised himself that he would protect John from that moment forward. Sherlock had nothing else to do, nothing else to live for. One job. Honestly, he would've just shot himself a long time ago if not for the slightest sliver of something that was telling him to wait. He hadn't wanted to shoot himself because he was depressed or suicidal, oh no, he wanted to because there really wasn't anything interesting to live for or look forward to. It was a simple matter of fact.

But now John Watson needed him, and Sherlock Holmes would be there for him even if it bloody killed him.